Fragile
by Muffy Morrigan
Summary: Tag to 6.13 Unforgiven. In the hours after the final scene, Dean deals with the aftermath of what's happened to his brother.


_A/N: Tag to Unforgiven 6.13 so some spoilers for that episode. For some strange reason the season six boys will only speak to me in this POV. Go figure. Title from the song by Sting. If you don't know it, check out the lyrics, it's practically a Winchester theme song in a lot of ways. _

**Fragile**

Lately it seems that all I'm doing is waiting. I think I might have mentioned I hate waiting.

And here I am, waiting again.

Sammy hasn't moved for one hour, five minutes and twelve seconds. Not that I'm counting. I never do, never watch the clock, wondering if it's a wait for life or death.

Death. I really thought the guy could build a better wall than that. It's like the big bad wolf dropped by, one huff and the wall was gone. You really would think that someone with the power of Death could at least go for the wall of wood. I'm suspecting it wasn't even straw, more like paper.

Of course, I might be misjudging Death. Sammy's always been a scratcher. When he was a kid he picked at every scab he ever had. It drove me nuts. I remember once when he fell and really tore up his knee, he had one of those big clunky scabs that are, to quote my seven-year-old brother, "made for scratching." I finally solved the problem with a large pad and a roll of duct tape.

It's too bad I can't wrap his soul in duct tape.

It's been almost four hours since he fell that first time. Well, four hours, seventeen minutes, thirty-three seconds. The seizures went on for five full minutes, I held him, trying to keep him from hurting himself as his body fought the onslaught of memories from Hell.

Oh yeah, it was Hell.

I know that look, know that place. I could almost see it there in his eyes, see his flesh burning, see the blades they use, the hooks hanging him above a bottomless pit. I could hear it too, in the grunt of pain that the human body can't express because it is just so far beyond what we are capable of vocalizing, so far beyond anything we know that all the body can do is make a soft grunting noise.

When I brushed the tears off his face, it wasn't much, but it was all I could do.

I knew what was coming, I knew that as soon as he could he would run, and he did. He pushed me away and ran blindly for escape. Sammy slammed into a wall, then rebounded into another before going out the window. He hadn't even known it was there, all he was doing was trying to escape where he was, desperately running from a place he can never escape.

Been there, done that.

I am not saying that to sound crass, or cold. Just the opposite in fact. As I ran after Sammy, all I could think about were my own years trapped in Hell, and I know that I had a light sentence compared to my brother. Compared to what he suffered, I had a walk in the park, and believe me sometimes the memories of that time rise up and still come close to pushing me into the happy nothingness of insanity. I wouldn't mind being numb some days. In fact, while Sammy was gone, I actually craved the insanity some nights, the same way I begged for the end a couple of times.

Paying attention helps.

Sammy got ahead of me, far enough to run full out into a slow moving vehicle. He bounced off the hood, picked himself up, looked around wildly and took off in another direction. Since he was still moving, I hoped he wasn't injured to badly, and he had decided to run back towards the house we were squatting in. I'm not sure why he did that, some kind of instinct maybe. I did that once or twice, waking after my return from Hell and just heading instinctively towards where I knew Sam was or had been. Safety.

Sure enough, that's where he was going. The few people who noticed us let us pass by, no one called the cops. Which is good. From the look on Sam's face, getting in his way would be bad. My brother launched himself over a fence, crashed into a tree and then slammed back into the house.

I followed.

He was in the corner, crouched down, trembling. Whatever was happening in that place had him motionless for the moment. There was blood on his face and hands. He needed care. _God, Sammy. _Taking a deep breath, I tried to get closer, holding my hands up, slow steps, trying not to frighten him. He was terrified enough.

I almost made it.

I was within feet of him when he stood and growled, his eyes wild, a color I've never seen. Not demon, not anything but the memories of Hell, but it was there in his eyes. I had no idea how much adrenaline was in him, how much fight was there, but I couldn't let him stay in that place.

"Sorry," I whispered, and swung. I put my entire weight in that punch, everything I have, everything I am. You have to hurt to heal. It was one hell of a punch, Sammy dropped like I'd pole-axed him. I caught him and dragged him over to the bunk he'd been using.

I checked him over. The bounce off the car had left him with bruises and abrasions, but nothing was broken. There was a cut in his hairline that needed a few small stitches. I put them in, remembering the first time I'd stitched him up. My hands were shaking then too, and believe me, there were tears then as now. Although, I have to admit, tears make stitching up your brother harder than it has to be, what with the blurring of vision and all.

Sammy was always stronger than me when it came to things like that. He would stitch me up, then leave and barf or cry or whatever he did. Sometimes he just walked. That Sammy calm, I really wished I'd gotten a little of that, wherever it came from. I just panic and try and keep the panic under control until I have a minute to breathe. The thing is, by the time I am tossing a couple of stitches in him, I have relaxed enough for the fear to really hit me.

_Oh, god, Sammy, I'm so sorry. _I pause and brush the hair away from his face. Even unconscious, I can see that the memories are still playing. He is still there, still in Hell, at least in his head. It's not where his soul really is, his soul is here, safe with me.

I think that's what Cas and Bobby were forgetting. Bringing Sam back from Hell. Even if he was only back for an instant and... and had to leave again, I know he wouldn't go back to Hell. No, my Sammy has more than earned his reward. He saved the world, stopped the apocalypse, and Hell is not his destiny.

He deserves better than that. And there was no way I was going to leave his soul to be a toy for a couple of screwed-up archangels with more problems than an entire lineup of reality shows. I'm really surprised that they thought I _would _ leave Sam down there. If Death hadn't come through, I would have found a way in. I know, I'd given up. I was trying to live my life, knowing he was in Hell, but once he was here, the physical presence of Sam, the memories and almost all the rest of him, hope was back.

Hope is a killer. Hope drives you when you should drop. Hope makes you do crazy things. Hope would have pushed me into Hell straight to Lucifer's cage and I would have torn it apart to free Sam. Why? Because there was hope.

I remember a movie where they say fear is the mind killer, nope, wrong. It's hope. But hope is also the life giver. Yeah, cheesy, but I believe in hope. Sammy knows that, and even the Sam without a soul knew that. He knew where I would go and what I would do to free his soul, it's why he stayed away. I'm sure he would give a different answer, but it's why. I know Sam. He knows me.

A soft moan from Sam. I glance up, two hours, two minutes, forty-seven seconds since I clocked him.

Is Hell still there in his head? I won't let him stay there. He knows that, I know he knows that, and he would trust me to not let him stay there. Follow him into Hell, or free him from this Hell of memory. I will do all I can, but I do have another option. He once made me promise to kill him, and I did, never intending to keep it.

This time, if I have to I will.

This is something different, because this is taking the pain, this is letting him out of that place, letting him free to walk whatever heaven actually is for him. I really don't think it's that bullshit we saw back when Zach was trying to force us to join his war, I suspect Sammy's heaven is different than what I was shown. But even then, even there in that fucked up heaven we were together.

Yeah, I plan on following him this time. Heaven or Hell, the Winchesters are sticking together this time. I wasn't fast enough to follow him into Hell, but this time I'll be right behind him, hanging on to his hand like I did on his first day of school.

Normal life sucks. I don't want normal. I can't do normal.

Sam moans again, one hand clawing at the blanket. I catch it between mine and offer everything I can through that touch. I'm not big on words, that's Sammy's thing, but I can hold his hand. I can let him know he's not alone. Another moan has me reaching for my gun, just in case. Bobby knows where we are, if we don't check in he'll come for us and make sure we're taken care of properly.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is soft, full of pain.

"Sammy?" I look down into his eyes. There is a reflection of Hell still there, but the wall is back and it's Sammy there, completely Sammy, not the wild creature just escaped from Hell, or the creature without a soul. "Hey." I pull him up and into a hug, holding on for life. I mean that literally. Life. The hope of life going on.

"What happened?" he asks with that frown that makes a little curly-Q between his brows.

"Nothing, you just had a bad dream."

Sam looks at me, at the gun on the bed, then back. He knows what's happened. Like I said, he knows me. "One or two?"

"Two," I answer.

He nods tiredly, I know he might fight about it later, try and make me promise something again, but for now, knowing I have his back is what he needs.

It's what I need.

_**The End**_


End file.
